


Top Dog

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Anonymous Sex, BDSM, M/M, Power Dynamics, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-25
Updated: 2006-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first shot of the war has been fired and Moody is in search of distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetcarolanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcarolanne/gifts).



> Written for the 2006 HP Springsmut exchange on LJ.

**March 17th, 1970**

He's hungry tonight. Restless. There's an itch just under his skin that neither sleeping draught nor scotch is going to soothe. That's what brings him here.

This place doesn't have a name—it doesn't need one. It stands slumped at the heart of Knockturn alley, shouldered in between a butcher's and a junkshop, and either you know exactly what goes on behind the dingy warehouse facade, or else you'd never give it a first thought, never mind a second.

He only comes here when he needs it, maybe once or twice a year in the last twenty. It's a last resort for nights like this when the devil's been out to play and all he can see when he closes his eyes is blood and bone. It's a foolish indulgence, even with a glamour on and his guard up. A weekend would be safer; the working girls and boys with more bravery than coin find their way in then, the stage show set up and the floor like a pack of dogs set loose in season, everyone sniffing and snapping and slinking off in pairs or threes or more, sights narrow and memories short.

Tonight's going to be a gamble, left to chance or desperation. But then, Alastor Moody thinks to himself as he digs his fee out of his pocket, if he were strong enough to wait three days, he'd be strong enough to stay away from this place for good.

* * *

No surprise.

There are two men sitting next to each other at the bar when he's admitted, the only souls in the place besides the troll watching the door and the pale, silent barkeep polishing glasses in back. He eyes each carefully, and every corner next. All the back rooms are unoccupied, the line of doors ajar, keyholes glowing green.

He takes a seat a few stools down from the pair: a man of perhaps his own years and one much younger. Here together but not _together_, he suspects, given the careful distance between them. It's the older one who catches his eye, strangely, for all that the younger is fit quarry and unclaimed by the looks of it. A big fellow, shaggy brown hair going silver and a few days' scruff on his face. He's got a wild look about him, like he doesn't belong indoors. His clothes fit a bit too tightly on his broad frame, his boots worn open at the soles. Long nails clink against a bottle of ale.

Alastor can feel his hackles go up. It's a good feeling.

"Bugger this, Fenrir," the young man grumbles with a look in his direction, "Caius swore this place was—"

But his companion cuts him off with an impatient growl, like he's been hearing excuses all night.

Alastor steals another look. He knows that boy. Not from here—he's barely old enough to be out of Hogwarts, by the look of it—but from the Ministry. Apprenticed to Magical Creatures, isn't he? One of the Macnair boys. The name eventually settles: Walden.

He orders himself an ale, and raises the bottle an inch to the other man in polite salute. Then he turns to his own business and tries to keep his mind off them both as he waits for better prey to come along.

* * *

It's him who unwittingly begins the game.

A quarter-hour passes, then a half, two bottles already put away and no one else through the doors when he chances to knock a bottle cap off the bar-top with his sleeve. It clatters to the floor, and he's considering leaving it there when this Fenrir fellow gives the boy a hard nudge, gesturing for him to pick it up.

Scowling, young Walden obeys.

Alastor finds a grin sent his way over the boy's head. It shows too many teeth, and he's suddenly in mind of the family pet offering up sparrows on the back step. He's intrigued despite himself. The room seems too warm, easing his itch and making it worse all at once.

He gets to his feet and excuses himself to the loo, pausing halfway to toss back over his shoulder: "Order me another ale, boy."

It's waiting for him when he returns.

A few minutes later, Fenrir tosses the boy his cloak and sends him to hang it up. Alastor gets him to pass the ashtray.

Walden fusses and frowns but doesn't refuse.

Alastor looks him over anew. He's a fit enough young thing, cleaner than some who come around here, with a certain sulky handsomeness to him. He knows the type: a little bully. Kicks cats and tortures frogs, but he'll roll right over for anyone bigger than him.

The other one's harder to read. They exchange a long, careful look, sizing each other up. Both of them maybe a little amused, a little conspiring beneath a sharp edge of...whatever it is that brings men like them to places like this.

In one swift motion, the boy gets kicked right off his bar stool, sent sprawling at Alastor's feet.

"Bloody hell!" Choler high, the boy twists around to glare at his companion.

Alastor takes a sip of his ale and crooks a brow. "He bite?"

Fenrir grins. "Not as hard as I do."

* * *

The back room comes with a bed and a set of chains. They use neither. Walden has to be dragged from the bar, kicking and shouting just hard enough to be a nuisance. It gets Alastor's blood up, his heart beating faster. He looks to Fenrir as they throw the boy down on the floor and finds his eyes nearly black.

He likes the angry ones. The sweet, the needful, they never hold his attention for long. He needs that wickedness, that stubbornness. He likes the ones that fight, the ones that just might sink their teeth in. The ones that look at him with hateful eyes, just like young Walden is, silently warning what will happen if he lets his mind wander for even a second.

This one has a sneering, bitter mouth to match, spitting as Alastor gets a hold of his hair and Fenrir twists his arm up behind his back. A hard yank pulls the boy close enough for him to feel the heat of his breath as he opens his robes.

He's already half-hard just from expectation and the sweat and ale smell on the air. His grip tightens as Fenrir all but tears the boy's robes off, lean limbs and a pale underbelly bared. He unbuttons his drawers, pulling himself out and idly stroking. Not an inch away, young Walden licks his lips and crisply calls him a bloody shirt-lifter.

Fenrir flashes an unpleasant smile. "Naughty, naughty."

A quick twist of his arm and Walden cries out.

Alastor shuts him up ably.

* * *

To his pleasant surprise, Walden Macnair is no stranger to sucking cock.

Alastor smugly shares this discovery with his new companion, one hand still twisted tight in Walden's hair, holding him close as he sputters, then chokes, and then rallies with a hungry mouth born of practice.

His hands now freed, the boy clutches at Alastor's hips, no longer even pretending this isn't what he came here for as he takes him right down to the root with a wicked, wet slurp, fussing only a little as Fenrir's boot prods between his thighs and draws Alastor's attention to a stiff red cock jutting out eagerly.

"Little bitch likes it," Fenrir chuckles, his voice rough as gravel. He takes another pull off his bottle.

Alastor didn't peg him for a watcher—didn't think he would have the patience, poised as he is at the edge of the bed, cheeks flushed and the buttons over his lap straining, nearly panting as Alastor fucks the boy's mouth with punishing little strokes. Fenrir's eyes glitter every time Walden whimpers, yet he seems content to wait his turn, and if Alastor didn't know better, he'd think each of those little looks his way are begging praise for doing it.

Maybe the boy's looking at him too, or maybe his eyes are squeezing shut tight at the indignity. He doesn't know, doesn't even really care as his own gaze fixes itself to Fenrir's mouth, the man tipping back the bottle to make it confess its last drops. Then he watches, dry-mouthed, as Fenrir gives the whole bottleneck a lewd suck.

Alastor closes his eyes with a shiver as Walden wails around him a moment later, and he opens them again to watch the neck of the bottle twisting in, glinting with spit. Walden's furious, muffled protestations don't stand much ground to his arse clenching greedily around the thing—nor to the snap of his hips, the choking groan, and the spatter of spunk over Alastor's boots that comes not two seconds after.

"Clean him up!" Fenrir's voice is a gleeful growl as he plants a boot square between Walden's shoulders.

From there, anything is fair game.

* * *

God only knows how long they torment the boy. They pass him back and forth, gagging him with his smalls when they finally tire of his mouth. The game continues, no longer set on seeing what Walden will let them do, but trading him between themselves in a round of one-upmanship.

Alastor takes the first spoils, fucking the boy limp, eyes fixed to Fenrir's eager pacing. He barely even notices when he works himself to a lather and spends, save for the easing of tension he feels in his backbone as Walden gasps pitifully on elbows and knees.

Then Fenrir takes his seconds with relish, on the boy's back not a minute later, tearing new moans from his hoarse throat. Alastor watches, unblinking: the arch of his back, the frenzy of his hips. Harder, Walden struggling not to be tossed like a rag doll beneath him. Faster, the snarl as Fenrir rears up, a flash of teeth at the boy's shoulder.

Alastor moves before he's given thought to it, the sharp blow ringing out with Fenrir's yelp. It's the first time they've touched.

For barely the space of a heartbeat, all three of them freeze. Fenrir's eyes are wildfire.

It's met with ice as Alastor draws himself up. "_No_."

Fenrir's face twists, something between ecstasy and agony. He shoots before the mark on his cheek can even fade.

* * *

It's quiet.

Long after, when the boy has passed out, snoring face down on the floor, and Fenrir lies stretched out beside him looking satisfied if not sated, Alastor washes away his sins at the rusty basin and straightens his clothing. He lingers, looking down on young Walden's sleeping form, and for a moment thinks of the murder that drove him here in the first place tonight. Not the body—the girl—not the blood, not even the strange sigil found haunting the sky above the site. All the two thoughts share is a weight in the pit of his belly.

For a moment, he wants to be foolish and invite the boy home with him. He wants to come back tomorrow and see him again. Not out of any true affection, not really, but only the aching thought that he might save him, if he tries. Save him from every evil, petty or great, that he might commit in his lifetime.

Fenrir looks at him queerly, a sly look, as though he can hear his every thought, and agrees at least on one thing: it may or may not be too late for the boy, but there's no saving men like them.

Alastor crouches down and gives Walden an absent pat, feeling him stir sleepily under the touch.

"Good boy," he whispers.

But as he turns to leave, for a moment at least, he finds it isn't the pup he wants to heel.


End file.
